Of Grief and Imagined Betrayals
by jadedlight
Summary: Lily's life is shrouded in lies that begin to take their toll on her until two emboldened boys each learn that she is not without scars. Grief makes strange bedfellows.
1. Prologue

**T**itle: **O**f **G**rief and **I**magined **B**etrayals **P**rologue  
**A**uthor: **J**ennie  
**R**ating: **R** for language  
**P**airings: **L**illy/**S**irius but ultimately **L**ily/**J**ames (obviously)  
**S**ummary: Lily's life is shrouded in lies that begin to take their toll on her. Two emboldened boys each learn that she is not without scars. Grief makes strange bedfellows.  
**A**uthor's **N**ote: AUish. I have ignored some well-known facts (Lily's age, for example) and taken liberties with others, but my goal was not to anger the hardcore fans but merely to create an original story. I feel that there are only so many times the same story can be written before you need to start changing certain aspects of the plot. My mind wanders in stories that use flashbacks in order to create background for the characters and, as a general rule, I avoid it at all costs. As a result, the prologue is a much needed, although slow, beginning. I urge you to sit through it; this is indeed a sixth/seventh year fic, I promise.

_Prologue___

It happened on a Monday.

My tenth birthday to be exact. Petunia had begged off the family festivities in favor of a swim party down the road, so it had just been the four of us: mum and da and Cypress and me, all singing off-key along to the radio as we sped down the motorway to the zoo. My brother was amusing me, in his own subdued way, by leaning over and whispering his own particularly randy version of the songs in my ear while I giggled and pointed out castles and flamingos in the clouds. Mum was laughing; I can still hear it quite clearly. It is a sound that to this day makes me feel both warm and empty…

Because then that laughter was replaced with screaming and suddenly there was the screeching of tires, the flash of blue sky, and the weight of my brother's body thrown on top of mine.

When I had awoken in the hospital, my world had been turned upside down. It came to me through veiled eyes and snippets of conversations barely heard, but I understood it well enough. My parents were dead. I can still feel Cypress' clammy hand clutching mine as the realization hit.

From that point on, none of us had ever been the same.

The twins, instead of turning towards each other for consolation, grew apart in their grief. Petunia bitterly hated herself for not being there the moment her parents had been taken away; the guilt manifested itself in her, hardening her, though it had taken me a few years to recognize this. Cypress, on the other hand, felt an estranged sadness that his twin hadn't been there, hadn't experienced the terror of blood and death that haunted his every step. He drew away from both of us until sometimes he seemed only a stranger in his indifference.

As for me, well, I learned how to keep secrets. I had always been a happy, outgoing girl, but that had changed. Living with our godmum taught me about hiding things; at first I learned to conceal the depth of my grief which later gave way to hiding my true thoughts and feelings, all behind a mask of calm.

Months crawled by until the owl came, and with it the letter that still continued to change our lives.

Hogwarts.

It was an escape from the harsh reality of living with a woman who had no use for children other than to have someone to change the station on the radio when needed. Yet it wasn't _my_ escape.

Cypress packed his belongings carefully as I sat on his bed, watching as the wall opposite the window faded from a burning red to gray ash.

"You won't forget about me, will you?" I asked somberly.

My older brother's shoulders sagged just a little before he came and sat next to me, nudging me just a bit with his shoulder. "Of course not, Bug."

I smiled slightly at his use of a nickname long neglected.

He fiddled with his sleeve and continued, his eyes distant. "If I could take you with me—you and Petty—I would in a heartbeat." He sighed and stared out the window at the peeling billboard across the street only visible now through the garish yellow haze of the street lamp. "I'm sorry, you know. I'm sorry I haven't been the greatest big brother to you. Maybe one day I'll be able to."

It was weird not having him around any more. Almost as weird as not having mum wake me up in the morning by opening my window shades with a smile and a good morning song or da toss me up on his shoulders so that I could pretend I was flying. But just like it had with my parents, the weirdness faded until it was just another emptiness in my life, something always there yet just below the surface.

Petunia and I went to school and played in the garden and learned how to hold the ball of yarn just right while godmum Annis knitted and life continued on. Cypress didn't come home for the holidays like we had hoped but he sent an owl laden with candy and pictures, so I suppose the ache of missing him was eased just a bit.

We had run upstairs to hide the gifts before our godmum saw—she tolerated nothing out of the ordinary, sometimes I thought the only reason Cypress had been allowed to go off to Hogwarts was only to get him out of the house—and we had each chosen a sweet to sneak before dinner while looking eagerly at pictures of our brother whom we envied immensely. I had chosen what looked to be a frog made out of chocolate and I couldn't help but squeal in delight as it magically hopped around the bed. Petunia, on the other hand, chose a bright yellow gobstopper which she peered at cautiously—my hopping food had made her feel a bit queasy—before sucking on it happily.

Even though we had heard all about wizarding photos from Cypress in his earlier letters, it was a completely different thing to look at and hold the pictures themselves. I thought it was one of the most amazing things I had ever seen and rolled my eyes when my sister said that it was creepy. Petunia felt that it was almost like the people in the photos were _watching_ her. Her paranoia was obvious even at age eleven.

There were seven pictures in all: shots of his dorm and dormmates (a dark haired boy sat with her brother on his bed winking lewdly at the camera while the others sat on the floor below them, laughing at something Cypress said), shots of the school grounds, and shots of the game that Cy had written about multiple times in his enthusiasm, Quidditch. That night, in the privacy of my own bed, I indulged myself in elaborate fantasies where I too could be magical.

The following summer Cypress came home much happier than he had left. He sat up late whispering to Petty and me about all the things he had learned and about how he was hoping to try out for his house Quidditch team the coming fall if he could find some way to convince godmum to buy him a broom.

It wasn't until a scorching July afternoon, when the owl dropped off _two_ letters instead of one, did things begin to unravel. The moment I read that I too was invited to go to Hogwarts, Petunia let out one huge sob before running out of the garden and into the house. Of course I felt guilty for leaving my sister behind but I couldn't help the fact that Petunia was as normal as normal could be. Besides, I knew that Petty wouldn't be happy at a school that didn't teach lessons on stories and mathematics. Beaming, I looked up at my brother knowing he would share in my delight but was saddened to see not a smile but a worried frown creasing his face.

"She'll get over it, Cy," I said and my heart dropped when he nodded distractedly and went inside.

For the rest of the summer, Cypress was agitated and worried but he picked up his lessons with me in earnest. By the time we were ready to pick up our school supplies, I felt as though I would explode if I didn't see and experience all the things he had talked about. But for some reason, Cypress didn't seem as anxious to _show_ me all the things as he was to describe them so I asked him about it.

"Look, Bug, I'm just worried, you know? Things are a bit… different in the wizarding world."

And that's when it came out. He needed me to keep a secret. I agreed without hesitation, after all, I saw the necessity in hiding truths but most importantly, he was my brother and I trusted him more than anyone else in the entire world.

That night, I learned about the darker side of the magical world. The side that scorned those who came from non-magical families, preyed upon their weaknesses, and tortured them with that knowledge at every turn. He had learned about this right off and in a desperate bid for self-preservation, he had lied about his heritage. I found it remarkable that a society so focused on the purity and rights of blood would not instantly recognize one who didn't belong.

"But we _do_ belong," he insisted. "They are only spouting what their parents tell them anyway. They don't know the difference."

I hugged my knees against my chest and thought about it. I thought about it so hard and long that my head began to ache. "What house do you think I'll be sorted into?" I finally asked, picking at my toenail polish, a remnant of Petty's attempts to sooth the growing bitterness between us. We had, after all, endured an entire year together, thick as thieves, without our brother. "Do you think I'll be with you?"

Smiling, Cypress mussed my hair. "You'll probably get put into Hufflepuff because you are _all _innocence."

Privately, I disagreed with him but that was just another of my many secrets so I simply smiled dutifully. "Would you be happy if I was sorted into Slytherin with you?"

"Of course. But I think you'd be much happier if you went into Hufflepuff or Ravenclaw."

"No Gryffindor then?" I giggled, knowing how much my brother despised that house.

"A Slytherin and a Gryffindor in the same family? Doesn't happen very often…" He trailed off, seemingly lost in thought. After a moment he seemed to come back to himself with a soft chuckle. "Besides, you're _much_ too smart to be placed in _that_ house."

Just a month later, waiting to sit on the stool in front of the entire Great Hall to be sorted, that sentence was echoing over and over in my mind. I looked over to Cypress surrounded by his friends and took a deep, shaky breath when he nodded encouragingly. To my utter mortification, when my name was called, a couple of boys at the Gryffindor table hissed loudly, but I tried my best to ignore them as the hat was placed on my head.

It hadn't taken him much time to decide. In fact, he hadn't really let me have a say in the matter at all.

"Gryffindor!"

The only thing I remember from the rest of that night was the look of horror that passed over my brother's face.

**Author's Note:  
**I am looking for a beta for this story. I would actually prefer to not post any more chapters until I do have one. Please, please, please if you are interested, email me at jenniejennielyn.com

Oh, and review please!

Thank you!

**Footnotes:**  
_Cypress_: As in the tree, keeping with the theme of the kids being named after flowers and—now—plants.  
_Annis_: Black Annis was a Leicestershire legend; she was a savage old hag who lived in a cave fronted by an oak tree. She would snatch up children who strayed too far from home, flay and eat them, then hang the flayed skins from the branches of the oak tree. Their godmum doesn't hate children _quite_ as much to flay and devour them, but they do annoy her.


	2. Chapter One

**_Author's Notes_**: I am still in search of a beta. Mainly what I need is someone to check my tenses and make sure I'm not slipping into third person; I am in the process of writing another story for another fandom which is third person, past tense and I find myself slipping back and forth because of it. If you are interested, please email me at jennie(at)jennielyn.com (the at symbol is being particularly pesky today)  
. . . . . . . .  
  
Chapter One  
  
_Five years later..._  
  
"Hey, Bug, do you ever see the light of day anymore?"  
  
I look up from the book, startled.  
  
"Cy, what are you doing in the library?" I ask suspiciously as I close the book and lean my elbows on it, more out of reflex than to hide my guilt; I am well aware that it is already too late. The move, though, serves more to draw attention to what I am obviously trying to hide than to actually hide it and I grimace slightly as my brother's eyes light on the book whose title is partially obscured by my arm.  
  
I almost groan as he slides into the seat across from me and holds out an expectant hand.  
  
"There wouldn't happen to be any chance of you pretending you never saw me and walking away, would there?" I ask as sweetly as possible.  
  
He raises an eyebrow slightly, his hand still stretched out towards me. There are, I decide as I push the book over, the limpest of gestures, some very annoying aspects to being the Head Boy's sister.  
  
"Divine Divination Divulgences: Twenty Things You Can Do To Acquire the Sight in Twenty Four Hours? Lily? What's this about? Don't tell me you actually believe in this 'Walk twenty paces backwards at the stroke of midnight and you will be endowed with the Sight for two hours' bullocks!" His voice holds in it a faint smile.  
  
Slightly put off, I cross my arms over my chest and examine the indentations carved into the table by generations of bored and destructive students, and I half-heartedly mumble out my excuse.  
  
"What was that?" Cypress asks, cocking his head to the side curiously.  
  
I growl. "I said I'm desperate. I can use all the help I can get if I'm to pass divination this year." My eyes narrow at him. "Don't laugh."  
  
"Ah, dear child, it's your own fault for taking that laugh of a class to begin with."  
  
I am sure that there would have been much more mocking to have been had if it wasn't for the commotion across the hall. As it is, I find myself quite grateful—for the first time, mind you—that Sirius Black and his cronies had chosen this moment to descend upon the seventh year Slytherins across the way.  
  
I hear Cypress swear under his breath but when I look over to him I see a malicious glint in his eye before he saunters away from me. He hates the self-dubbed 'Marauders' more than I hate divination, and that is saying something. Personally, I understand the sentiment; after all, the Gryffindor boys seek out trouble as one might seek out water on a hot day. They seem to go hand in hand.  
  
Paying only partial attention to the exchanging of insults, I flip through the book again and sigh. My brother is right. Nothing is going to help me miraculously get the Sight no matter how many nights I walk backwards.  
  
"So they're at it again, are they?" a deep voice murmurs in my ear before my friend, Nicholas Carmichael, slides into the chair next to me.  
  
I look at him despondently. "When aren't they? Did you do the essay for Binns yet?"  
  
"Doesn't it bother you at all?"  
  
"What? Them?" I gesture vaguely off to my left as the voices become more heated.  
  
"The fact that your housemates are insulting your flesh and blood." Nick kicks my chair a few times as I think about my answer.  
  
"Cypress can take care of himself," I intone needlessly; we both know this to be true. "I can't say that I wouldn't be happy if this little feud of theirs ended but I know that there is too much bad blood between them for that to ever happen." I grin up at him. "Even the ever-optimistic Dumbledore sees that by now."  
  
My attention is drawn back over to the seventh years and I suck in a startled breath as I witness my brother violently shove James Potter against the stone wall, gripping his throat tightly and pointing his wand at the black haired boy's temple.  
  
It was, perhaps, the first time in a long time that I acted without thinking.  
  
I stood. "And now it's time for me to break up this little bacchanalia," I sigh with a faint smile and cross over to my brother, warily minding the variously pointed wands. Placing a hand on my brother's shoulder in order to subtly placate him, I happen to glance up and meet Potter's eyes and for a that brief second I forget who I am and why I am there, I forget that my brother is currently tightening his hold on the boy's throat, cutting off his air supply, I forget that there are eight boys behind me, watching my every move. The only thing I know is that my heart had stopped and then fluttered and now was throbbing painfully in my chest.  
  
Wrenching my eyes away from Potter's clouded hazel ones, I lean in close to Cypress' ear so that no one else will be able to hear. "Cy, he isn't worth losing Head Boy over and you know it," I whisper, risking a glance back at Potter, but his eyes aren't on me anymore. They are on his enemy. I am slightly alarmed to see the redness in his face starting to turn to blue. I am only dimly aware of Black spouting expletives behind me, but I ignore him easily. "Tell everyone to back off. They'll listen to you, you know that." The tension in Cypress' body seems to seep out slowly and his hold on Potter loosens. "He's not worth it," I whisper one last time, before turning around and fixing the group with a hard stare.  
  
Never have I interfered before and it is obviously throwing them for a loop because all of the pointed wands, despite what side they are from, seem to be twitching ever so slightly off of their intended targets and onto me as if I was to all of a sudden begin hexing everyone.  
  
Although I have to admit, none of them know exactly which side I am supporting. Yes, I love my brother but I know that the only reason why the Slytherins are civil to me is because he insists upon it. But I hold no particular love for the seventh year Gryffindors in front of me either. Since day one, Sirius Black has despised me—not that it has ever mattered much to me, either way—and while he doesn't actively go after me as he does my brother, he still hasn't made me feel all that welcome, even in my own common room. I suspect that it has much to do with my slight friendship with his younger brother, Regulus, whom still hasn't spoken to Sirius since their family disowned the older boy.  
  
In fact, now that I think about it, I myself don't even know which side I am supporting. Even if I had the time to mull over the situation, I would be hard pressed to come to a decision. But here I am, in the middle of a very high-charged group of alpha-male posturing adolescents, each eying me with a measure of distaste. And then it hits me. I don't owe allegiance to anyone, least of all anyone here.  
  
I am stringless, obligationless. The revelation bolsters my confidence and I hold back a grin.  
  
"Do I have my wand drawn?" I finally question, placing my hands on my hips as Black snarls, marring his tragically beautiful face with the gesture. Nobody seems inclined to answer (unless you count Black's aforementioned snarl) so I continue. "Then I ask you to show me the same courtesy."  
  
No one moves. Watching as each of the boys flick their gazes to their comrades behind me, I hold fast, despite the sudden ache to know what is happening between Cy and Potter. But one thing I learned early on in my years at Hogwarts is that you never turn your back on immature boys with their wands at ready. And I can hear Potter's ragged breathing so I know nothing too dire is going on. He's still breathing, after all.  
  
"You heard her," Cypress suddenly states, resolutely. His voice deepens just a little; this is his serious voice. "And if I catch any of you pointing a wand at her ever again, you will live to regret it."  
  
Slowly, the wands disappear into pockets and holsters, and I sneek a peek at Nick, lounging in his chair across the hall, looking as though he is immensely enjoying the show. Arse.  
  
"Potter," I continue as he comes around from behind me and collects his fallen wand from Pettigrew. "Ten points for provoking the Head Boy. You, a prefect, should know better." The group of mutinous Gryffindors look as though they are about to explode so I plod on, not knowing if I am signing my own death sentence as I do so. "And twenty points from Slytherin, Cypress, for allowing yourself be cajoled into resorting to physical violence." My brother's lips tighten, forming a tight line across his face, but he remains silent. "Now, I do not feel the need to divulge the details of what has transpired here today to the Heads of Houses, that is, unless any of you would like to object?"  
  
Evan Rosier, a Slytherin who always seems to be either on the verge of either kissing me or hexing me, raises an eyebrow condescendingly. Severus Snape, a quiet yet devious boy, smirks at me but his eyes are still cold and hard as steel. Black glares openly; his hatred for me is apparent and I dismiss him with a roll of my eyes before moving on. Remus Lupin, a boy whom I never could figure out, not that I spend much time trying, glances at me briefly before going back to watching Potter carefully as if the boy is going to collapse at any moment. I find this extremely funny since I have gone to every Quidditch game thus far and have seen Potter attain much more grievous injuries than a little asphyxiation and still continue to play. Rabastan Lestrange, my brother's best friend, and his twin brother, Rodolphus, wear identical expressions of boredom before exchanging a look that meant nothing to me but obviously volumes to each other because both smile manically at Potter. The rest of the group simply look too nervous to speak so I ignore them. And Nick, well, he is grinning at me brilliantly from his seat, appearing quite content to let me continue the social suicide I seem set on committing.  
  
"I thought not. Now if you would please disperse, I have an essay I need to be getting to." I watch as Cypress waves the Slytherins off before beginning to head back to my useless Prefect friend in the corner.  
  
Just as I step away, though, I hear Black sneer at my brother. "Need to have your sister clean up your messes now, Evans? Too much of a duffer to leg it out of your own fights when things get too rough?"  
  
Now, I think this is quite priceless considering the precarious position Potter had been in, but I am through with being the mature one so I ignore the pompous bastard as I usually do and slide into my seat next to Nick.  
  
"Interesting..." Nick drawls, and I look up at him briefly, expecting his attention to still be on the boys and am surprised to see them resting on me. He tugs on a strand of my hair and rests his chin on his hand.  
  
"What are you on about?" I ask, tucking my hair tightly behind my ears. I resist the urge to look at my brother.  
  
"You, getting involved." Before I can voice my opinion though, he continues. "I mean, luv, you aren't really a joiner."  
  
I ignore his pointed look and begin digging in my bag for my History of Magic text. "I just don't relish having to spend the next few years visiting my brother in Azkaban. It's purely selfish."  
  
Nick's smile fades and his hand lands on mine, stilling its movements. I feel my eyes drawn up to his and I suck in a surprised breath when I see the seriousness in his chocolate eyes. Nervously, my eyes dart away, focusing instead on my brother, seated stoically on the edge of the table, fiddling with his wand as he speaks to an enraged Black. Pettigrew is bouncing on the balls of his feet, a bundle of anxious nervousness, and Potter, fully recovered now, looks as though he might lunge out at any moment and punch Cypress in the face. But it is Lupin who confuses me, for he is not focused on his friends' plight, but is instead examining me with a tilted head.  
  
I turn back and find Nick watching the other boy curiously before turning back down to me.  
  
"Lily, things are going to get worse before the get better," Nicky murmurs, glancing back up at the boys a moment. "Are you going to be willing to step in every time there's a confrontation?" His voice holds no mocking, only compassion.  
  
After a moment, I answer truthfully. "I will do what I must," I answer hesitantly, wondering what he was trying to tell me.  
  
He nods and I feel reassured. Nick pulls out his History of Magic essay and slides it in front of me. I take it in my hand but don't look at it. His eyes are trying to tell me something, something that I'm sure I'm supposed to understand. But this meaning keeps eluding me so I continue to stare. "Even if it means going against your brother?" he adds in a soft yet threatening voice.  
  
Sharply, I look up at him and then over to my brother, now alone with a pleased smile on his face. "He's all I have in this world... he's all I have in any world." Then, with a little more force in my voice, I add, "Besides, he has only ever looked out for me. Nothing will change that."  
  
Again, Nick nods, but this time I feel as though his knowledge of what is happening and what is to come is deeper than he is willing to admit. "Then have faith, little one."  
  
And then he is normal Nicky again, smiling and chewing lewdly on his quill, all pretense of seriousness gone with the shifting of the wind.  
  
"So," he grins, waving the book I had abandoned in the air. "Does this have anything to do with your irrational fear of failing divination, by any chance?"  
  
Pouting childishly, I cross my arms over my chest and do my best to ignore the seed of worry that he has unwittingly planted deep inside my chest.  
  
"Sod off, Nicky."  
  
. . . . . . . .  
  
Life for me is quite monotonous, really, but I don't mind. In fact, I thrive on routine. I have a very small circle of friends with whom I spend my time, but mostly I study, which is what I am attempting to do late the Sunday night following the library incident.  
  
Most of the students had retired an hour before; a few solitary fourth and fifth years dotted the outskirts of the room, reading or revising. As I look around, I notice a small girl, no doubt a first year, huddled on the floor by the fire, picking at the threadbare rug, looking lost in thought. I am reminded of myself all those years back when I found myself alone in a house who scorned me for my name, a name that everyone construed to be of a dark nature thanks in large part to my indomitable brother. It was hard the first few weeks, but then I met Nick and Holly Morgan, both Gryffindor first years with me, and the isolation I had suffered from had all but dissipated.  
  
Just as I am contemplating going over to the young girl to cheer her up, a bellowing laugh comes echoing down the boy's landing. A few moments later, Potter, Black, and Pettigrew round the corner, jostling each other roughly and laughing at something fairly inane, I am sure. Peter Pettigrew is the first to notice me; his squinty eyes narrow and his mouth constricts as though he is sucking on a particularly bad sweet. The other two boys followed his line of sight and instantly scowl. Sirius Black, never one to hold back when wanting to say something, starts over, and I bolster myself for his attack, but much to my and Black's surprise, Potter pulls him back and they continue out the portrait hole, throwing dirty looks over their shoulders.  
  
I shake my head. They still haven't confronted me about what had happened in the library, which, considering they don't share any classes with me, this isn't all that odd. What is odd is that they have left the common room after curfew. What were the professors thinking, appointing Potter as a Prefect?  
  
I don't have much time to contemplate this inexplicable mystery because Holly darts down the stairs, looking around panicked. She sees me at once and makes her way over, scroll of parchment in hand.  
  
"Thank Merlin, Lily. I have sat staring at this essay for so long, it no longer makes sense to me. Please tell me it makes sense. I don't think I could write another one; it's due tomorrow morning. Professor Sparrow will do that eyebrow thing of his whenever we do something not quite up to par, you know? Well, I just couldn't stand it if—"  
  
I hold up a calming hand and gently take the paper from my friend. She gets like this sometimes, Holly does, and I have learned to just ignore my friend's odd idiosyncrasies.  
  
"Deep breaths, dear. That's it, put your head between your legs," I say, not bothering to hide my condescending attitude. Holly shoots me an annoyed glare but before I can respond, someone behind us softly clears their throat.  
  
To say that I am surprised would be an understatement. Remus Lupin stands before us, his passive expression suddenly grating to my nerves.  
  
"Sorry to bother you, but..." He pauses. "Did you happen to see where James, Peter and Sirius went?"  
  
I blink at him, feeling Holly's questioning gaze lingering on me. Finally, I find my voice. "Where the leaves go in autumn," I reply, apathetically.  
  
He stares at me a moment, and then nods, a brief smile at his lips. "Quite right," Lupin murmurs, softly, and he turns without another word and ducks out of the common room.  
  
"My, aren't you poetic today," Holly drawls, staring after Lupin. "What was that all about anyway? Isn't it past curfew?"  
  
I make a non-committal sound in the back of my throat and turn my attention to my friend's essay.  
  
"No, really, why was he asking you? Nicky told me about what happened in the library, which is another topic altogether, girl. You have to be pretty daft to step in between that group of guys if you want to continue your neutral status."  
  
Not looking up from the parchment, I scoff. "I've never been neutral, Holly Tree. My brother saw to that before I even came here. It was just my dumb luck that got me sorted into Gryffindor."  
  
The blonde remains silent, staring at her hands.  
  
"There's something different about Lupin, though," I add, suddenly not able to concentrate on the words in front of me. "Or maybe I just never took the time to notice before."  
  
"Different, how?"  
  
"He was watching me in the library. Everything was so high-charged, everyone was so on edge, and he was simply watching me, not out of wariness or anything, but... I don't know. It's as if he wants to say something to me, but doesn't know quite how to go about saying it. Urgh. That doesn't sound right, either," I finish, feeling my face flush at my inadequacy.  
  
Holly chews her lip thoughtfully. "Maybe he likes you," she offers with a delighted grin.  
  
"Maybe who likes you?" Nick asks as he joins them at the table, snatching the essay from my hand. "Is this the paper for Sparrow? I thought you were done with that a week ago."  
  
"It's Holly's," I supply, studiously ignoring his first question.  
  
"I think that Remus fancies our darling Lily, here," Holly puts in pointedly.  
  
"Thanks, Holly."  
  
My friend shoots me a dazzling smile.  
  
Nick appears put out. "Why would he do that?" he snaps, before visibly wincing at how it came out. I don't give him the opportunity to amend his statement before giving him a solid thwack on the back of the head.  
  
"Are you saying that I'm unlikable?" I demand playfully.  
  
He grins sheepishly and sidles up next to me. "Not at all, m'dear. Can't blame a bloke for being a jealous git, can you?" He kisses my neck for good measure as I hear the portrait hole behind us open up.  
  
I gurgle as I shove him off me. "Get stuffed," I growl, trying to steal back my hand that Nick seems adamant on keeping. The moment my table is shrouded in shadows though, I stop struggling and gaze upwards to find two of the four Marauders looming over us.  
  
"A word, Evans?" Potter asks, his eyes flicking to where my hand is joined with Nick's before traveling back up to my face.  
  
"Is it terribly important?" I play innocently, opening my eyes wide in mock worry. I hear Nick stifle a laugh.  
  
Potter rolls his eyes and musses his hair. "Don't patronize me. You know what I want to discuss."  
  
"Oh! In that case, no." I nonchalantly begin to gather my things into my bag, ignoring the looks my friends are giving me.  
  
"What is your problem?" Sirius exclaims, only to be shushed by those remaining downstairs. "Why are you even in Gryffindor?"  
  
"That I could not tell you, Black. Apparently, the sorting hat has a wickedly twisted sense of humor. But then, you disowned your brother who ended up in Slytherin so questioning my loyalty is a bit hypocritical, don't you think?"  
  
"You know not what you speak of," Sirius growls, looking for all the world like he has a few hexes waiting to be spilled off his tongue. "You are just an ignorant child who follows her brother blindly into the arms of the dark. Don't even try to deny it. Your unfailing faith in him is disturbing in the least. Don't you have a mind of your own?"  
  
His words, though misguided, hits close to home and I take a moment to gather my wits. "I do not feel the need to explain myself to the likes of you. It is neither my fault, nor my concern, that you and my brother do not get along. My only regret thus far has been to go out of my way to save your little golden boy's neck. Do not mistake me; it'll never happen again." I shove the remaining scrolls into my bag and stand abruptly, cursing my shortness as I am still forced to look up at them.  
  
"Evans, you are playing in a game with no knowledge of the rules. You," Potter hesitates and scratches the back of his neck. "You inadvertently got your brother to stop mauling me, so I simply thought I would return the favor."  
  
I snort, trying to move around them but they block the way. "By what? Insulting me? Telling me I don't belong here? Well, don't bother. I'm well aware that I am not welcomed by most in this house. Now if you will please, I wish to leave this conversation."  
  
Potter seems to be barely holding onto his wayward anger and grips my arm almost painfully. "Look, just watch your back. There haven't been any to successfully be accepted by both the Slytherins and the Gryffindors. It just doesn't happen. You will be betrayed."  
  
I look up into his eyes, haunted by the mysterious emotions of my last encounter with him, and search his face for his true meaning. Finding no definitive answer, I sigh wearily. "I already have been," I acknowledge and lean down to kiss the top of Nicky's head. "Goodnight."  
  
And taking Holly by the hand, I drag my friend up the stairs to our dorm only pausing once as I notice the small first year watching me with trepidation from in front of the fire.  
  
I haven't been that little girl in a very, very long time.  
  
. . . . . . . .  
  
Once in our dorm, we slip off our cloaks and shoes soundlessly and crawl into Holly's bed. I lay on my back, staring up at woven cloth that covered the top of the bed as my friend secures the curtains around us so as to not wake up our roommates. Once settled, Holly distractedly plays with my hair as we both think about what happened.  
  
"I..." I begin, but I don't know what to say. Holly nods in agreement.  
  
We stay there, side by side, listening to each other breathe until I think Holly might've fallen asleep. But she proves me wrong when she clears her throat.  
  
"Does your family support the dark?" she asks, no trace of fear or judgment in her voice.  
  
I close my eyes. "No," I whisper.  
  
"My uncle was in Slytherin, but that was before the Dark Lord came into the picture. My family is usually in Hufflepuff, if you'll believe it. I'm the first to be sorted into Gryffindor..." Holly trails off and snuggles further down under the blankets, turning onto her side to face me. "What about your family? Are you the first into Gryffindor as well?"  
  
"Yes," I whisper again, feeling an unbidden tear make its way down my cheek. I try desperately to will my lip to stop trembling. "Tree, I've lied to you," I admit softly.  
  
Holly stops breathing.  
  
"I... I've lied to everyone," I try again. "I'm not like you. I—" I cut off as I try to keep a hold of my flailing so-called Gryffindor bravery. "I'm muggle-born," I finally say, and it is like a great exhale, the relief flooding my senses until I feel lightheaded.  
  
The blonde twitches. "I don't understand."  
  
"Before my brother received his letter, I—we—had no idea that there was a magical world beyond the one we were living."  
  
Holly's hand squirms under the blankets until it finds mine. She gives it a brief squeeze that affords me just enough comfort for me relax back against the bed again. We let the silence sit there awhile.  
  
"Could you imagine being a muggle-born in Slytherin?" she asks after a breath of quiet. We both shudder. And just like that, Holly's quiet, contemplative mood is gone as she bounds into a seated position excitedly, wrenching the blankets off of me in the process. "So let me get this straight. Your brother comes to this school not knowing anything about magic and somehow convinces his Slytherin dormmates that he is pureblood?"  
  
I nod, trying to wrest the covers back down on top of me as Holly falls back against the pillows dramatically.  
  
"Holy fuck, I think I'm in love with him," my friend swoons.  
  
"Cute." I give Holly a pointed look. "But I don't think he's your type."  
  
"And what do you know about my type, huh?"  
  
"Last I knew you were trying to convince me of Sirius Black's numerous qualities. Need I say more?"  
  
"Oh, come on. You don't have to like the guy to admire some of his more finer... ends. Besides, when was the last time you were snogged, hmm?"  
  
I lift my head, yank the pillow out from below me and smack her in the face with it. "I fail to see the connection. You've wanted to bring this up for awhile now, haven't you," I conclude suspiciously.  
  
"Can't a girl be concerned for her friend's lackluster love life?"  
  
"You sound remarkably like Nicky and it's creepy beyond words. From here on out, you are restricted to seeing him only at meal times."  
  
"Nice. Well, you can have him. He was cramping my style anyways." Fidgeting, Holly forces my wrist from out from under the covers to check my watch by wand light. "Now shove off, even your watch seems to think we should be asleep already; it's starting to spout Poe again."  
  
My watch, a gift for my sixteenth birthday from Holly and Nick, is too snarky for it's own good. I still haven't gotten used to its cryptic remarks but find it comforting in its oddity. At the moment it reads: 'Sleep, those little slices of death, how I loathe them.'  
  
"I know when I'm not wanted." I crawl out of bed, shivering in the moonlight. "Night," I whisper as I dart to my own bed and into its cold confines. All the comfort and ease I felt in Holly's bed has fled me and I suddenly find myself feeling bereft and alone. Idly, I run through the twenty three uses of raven's blood, usually a sure-fire way to put anyone asleep, but am distracted by mutinous thoughts. Heart pounding faster than I would care to admit, I finally allow myself to focus on the events in the common room, something that Holly has instinctively let alone this evening though I know it won't be long before the topic comes up.  
  
Many times I have tried to discern exactly why I dislike the Marauders as much as I do. But the conclusion I come to isn't one I like to dwell on. Instead, I focus on Potter's blind arrogance that he proves to be ignorant of time and time again. That he thinks of me as someone in need of warning, that he thinks I don't realize that my life is on the line, is enough to make me seethe in contempt. And Black. He is more like his brother than he realizes. Every mannerism, from the set of his shoulders when determined to the maddening smirk when angered, is an echo of Regulus. He is just as cold as his brother but not as controlled. He is a filibuster just waiting to explode and that scares me. I like my routines, the predictability of it. Sirius Black is something that even his friends have a hard time predicting and that is dangerous.  
  
Especially now, after I have angered him one too many times.  
  
. . . . . . . .  
  
To me, prefect meetings are pointless. Between the bickering and unspoken alliances, nothing of substance ever gets completed. During the last meeting I had been to, Gregory Dunbar, sixth year Hufflepuff, argued with Renee Green, fifth year Gryffindor, for forty minutes about the intricacies of the Saturday lunch menu while the Slytherins played exploding snap, Potter slept, and Cypress lorded over it all. Needless to say, the following Saturday, the house elves served the same lunch that they always served.  
  
Nothing will ever change.  
  
Some might say I'm just cynical and I would, quite frankly, agree. But I'm also realistic. I know that, if push came to shove, the Hogwarts prefects will never be able to stand together. It is intrinsically impossible.  
  
So, generally, I avoid going to prefect meetings like I do the mall after Christmas or nest of angry dragons or anything else particularly distasteful. I'm not being neglectful—Nick always goes and fills me in on the more sordid highlights later—I'm just conserving my energy. Why Dumbledore wanted me as Prefect in the first place is beyond me, but then, the nutcase made my brother Head Boy and Potter and Nicky Prefects as well. The man works in mysterious ways.  
  
So it is with great reluctance that I stand outside the meeting room, contemplating offering myself on a silver platter with a bull's eye targeted on my bum to the combined efforts of both the Slytherins and the Marauders rather than enter into the room beyond the door in front of me.  
  
"You'll have to go in there sooner or later," says Holly, who's leaning comfortably against the wall beside me, enjoying my discomfort a little too much considering she's supposed to be my friend.  
  
"I have so many other things I should be doing." I notice that my voice has taken on a distinctive whining quality to it.  
  
"So you lose out on two hours in which you could have started that potions assignment. You'll make it up; you always do," she replies, nonplussed.  
  
"Lost time is never found again," I sigh but grit my teeth and open the door. The last thing I see before the door swallows me up is Holly biting her lip to keep from laughing.  
  
I really need to get new friends.  
  
Glancing around the room, ignoring the surprised looks most of the Prefects are shooting at me, I spy Regulus Black in the corner, nose buried in a book. Seating myself next to the boy, I peek over his arm at the text.  
  
"It's impolite to read over one's shoulder," Regulus states blandly but when he looks up at me his face softens. Regulus' eyes are a shining brown, deep-set, longlashed, and identical to his brother's, right down to that little hint of mischievousness that seems to catch the light every now and then.  
  
"It's a good thing I never said I was polite, then," I counter, peering around the room once more. The lines of segregation are more distinct than I seem to recall in this room. The Hufflepuffs are grouped in the center front, a tight ball of nervous energy. Gryffindors are along the right wall, occasionally interspersed with a Ravenclaw or two and the Slytherins are slouched on the left, only allowing the Ravenclaws to penetrate into their midst. I can feel Regulus' eyes on me as I examine the room and although it's never a comfortable thing to have his full and complete attention, I am able to disregard this discomfiture with practiced ease.  
  
He leans in, his breath hot against my neck. "So to what do I owe this pleasure?"  
  
"Nick has detention therefore I am elected to come in his stead."  
  
His eyes flatten and he leans back, focusing back down on the creased pages in his hands. "More's the pity," he practically spits out, ill concealed vehemence lacing the words.  
  
Accustomed to his elitist transgressions, I ignore his tone. "No," I murmur with a soft smile. "It's a pity that a certain delinquent brother of yours survived that mauling this morning in Magical Creatures. Who would have thought that a knarl would react so violently to being prodded with a stick repeatedly," I finish sarcastically. Really, I would think that a seventh year pureblood would know better.  
  
True to his nature, Regulus shifts in his seat but otherwise shows no discomfort at discussing his brother. Then again, he never actually does the discussing; he always remains passive, only listening. Baiting him, seeing what would set him off, is one of my favorite past times. Unfortunately, he hasn't cracked yet.  
  
But before I can mention his brother again, Cypress stands and bangs his gavel in an overly annoying fashion making all those in the room cringe collectively, and calls the meeting to order.  
  
"Today," he states brusquely. "The meeting has been shortened. Lily," Cy continues, an eyebrow cocked toward me in amusement. "You only have to sit through thirty minutes so save the sleeping for Binns' class."  
  
Bastard.  
  
The room titters nervously; it isn't often that Cy jokingly banters with me in front of God and fellow students.  
  
"Fuck off," I declare loudly in my 'superior than thou' voice, but I grin in spite of myself. "Twenty nine minutes and counting."  
  
Cy beams at me, a beguiled twinkle in his eye. "First on the agenda..." he trails off, peering over the Head Girl's shoulder at her notes. Even from where I am, I can see that the parchment is pale pink and her i's are dotted with hearts. "Is the blatant disregard most students have for hallway etiquette. Emma, dear, I believe this is your cause?" Cy turns to the Head Girl, Hufflepuff Emmaline Stoddard, and smiles innocently. I'm not quite sure what he's playing at because he never pays any attention to—never mind encourages—her hopeless, weekly evangelism, but by the sudden blush on the blonde's face, methinks he is having his torrid way with her. Probably at the very desk in front of us.  
  
Cringing at my horridly detailed imagination, I find both my mind and my gaze wandering while the Head Girl passionately fills us in on the sordid side of students getting around the 'no magic in the hallways' rule. Inexplicably (or so I tell myself), I find my eyes drawn across the room to Potter's lax form, lounging in his chair against the wall. Just looking at him makes me want to fidget in my seat, something I absolutely abhor. Control over what people expect of you is only achieved through control over yourself.  
  
Or something like that.  
  
I suddenly find it difficult to think coherently watching sodding James Potter, poncy, arrogant prat that he is, biting his lip enticingly at Ravenclaw Jenny something or other. If looks were action, he would be across the room dry humping her leg right now. Lucky bitch.  
  
Startled, I check myself. Lucky? This is sleep deprivation at its best, I try to convince myself. And remarkably, I believe it, because there is no possible way for me to be suddenly and unfathomably attracted to such bloody wanker, bedroom eyes or no.  
  
I close my eyes; out of sight, out of mind. So I try to prove the old adage correct and focus down at Regulus' flowing script on what looks to be our latest Divination homework. I have been putting it off for two days now.  
  
"Don't waste your time," Regulus whispers, his brown eyes flickering across the room to Potter before settling back down on his work in front of him. For a second, I delude myself into thinking he's discussing my Divination work. "I've heard he's a horrible lay."  
  
My heart speeds up, its beating taking on an unnatural pattern that leaves me feeling off balance. "Don't be ridiculous. I wouldn't waste my time with that ponce if he was the Dark Lord himself." Even to me, my words seem hallow. In a desperate attempt to save face, I rest my hand on his forearm. "Besides, Slytherins have always been more my style."  
  
He knows what I am doing, his look tells me plainly, but he allows my hand to remain where it is and I force my body to relax.  
  
When I look up, Potter's gaze is on me; a cold, hard look that isn't difficult to interpret.  
  
. . . . . . . .  
  
**Footnotes**:   
_Where the leaves go in autumn_: Susan Cooper, Silver on the Tree, The Dark is Rising Series   
_Sleep, those little slices of death, how I loathe them_: Edgar Allen Poe, In Horror   
_Lost time is never found again_: Benjamin Franklin, Poor Richard's Almanac 1748  
  
. . . . . . . . . .  
  
**Author's Notes**: Big thanks goes to Starlett13 and Eve for my first and only reviews on this story. You made my day, hope you enjoy. 


	3. Chapter Two

**_Author's Notes_**: I'm terribly sorry for the delay on this chapter. I spent a little bit of time revising the outline but all is well now. I owe much of the flow and readability of this chapter to my two amazingly patient and supportive betas Dasha and Aredhel. Without them, I'm afraid I probably would have written myself into a hole.  
  
_Chapter Two  
_  
I have found myself in a bit of a dilemma lately.  
  
You see, just as I stand prone between two houses, neither of which fully accepts me, I find myself in much the same situation with regards to my life beyond Hogwarts.  
  
I live in the middle ground, looking in on the muggle world with all too knowing eyes and observing the wizarding world warily. When I leave Hogwarts, a choice must be made and I don't know if I can bring myself to make it. Can I assimilate myself into a world that will never entirely accept me? Can I really turn my back on the world I have lived in for the past five years and forget it ever existed?  
  
I really don't know.  
  
As with most things, the list of pros and cons reaches far beyond that of my latest Potions essay. I have looked the list over with contempt many times over the past two years, the crossing out and smeared ink a testament to the hours I have agonized over it, but lately that contempt has changed into resignation. I have come to realize that no matter which choice I make, there are undesirable consequences that I will have to live with. Now, it's just a matter of altering my mask—my tried and true defense of living in my brother's shadow—to protect me from the disappointment that lies ahead.  
  
And with that thought, I grip the edges of the crinkled parchment, feeling for the last time the rough surface I have felt a hundred times before, and begin ripping the list into a snow fall of paper that slowly piles on the desk in front of me. While my decision is far from being made, I choose to not hide behind shallow rationalizations of my life on paper.  
  
"I think that the parchment is very well decimated by now, Lily."  
  
I look over to Nick in his desk beside me and see the concern he is trying to hide; he has never been good at concealing his emotions, which is one reason, I think, my brother dislikes him so much.  
  
"Sorry, off in my own little world." I whisper, shooting an unnecessary look of caution at Binns at the head of the classroom. I smile, trying to alleviate his worry. "You going to the match today?"  
  
Neither of us is big on supporting the Gryffindor team, but we both are avid fans of the sport and try to make any game regardless of the opposing teams.  
  
"Can Mel come, too?" he asks, invoking his patented 'pity me' look in support of his plea. Mel is his on again, off again, on again Ravenclaw girlfriend. She weighs about six pounds, most of it in her head.  
  
"Of course. You know I don't mind when she tags along." A complete lie. He knows this, yet he nods and goes back to his note taking, ignoring both me and the pile of paper insecurities in front of me. I stare down at the small shreds and watch as a slight breeze from the open window ruffles them, disturbing their quiet order.  
  
All at once, I realize that the class has been dismissed and I am drawn into a world of my own flurry. I too feel ruffled by the jostle of students as they make their way to the door to head out to the pitch. Closing my eyes for a moment, I let myself be immersed in the ebb and flow of the yelling, giggling, talking, until the majority of it fades fast away beyond the closed classroom door.  
  
"Lily, come on!" I am shaken by a laughing Holly and collect all my things in a daze. "I want to get good seats this time and you know the whole of Gryffindor will be out there today." And for some inexplicable reason, Holly grabs a most unwilling Nick and begins leading him in what must be some bizarre pre-game ritual dance around the room.  
  
I sit back waiting for the whirlwind that is my friend to settle down.  
  
"What are you doing?" I finally voice as a frustrated Nick finally gains his freedom, hardly able to hide the smile lurking beneath the surface.  
  
"Victory dance," she responds and grins. "You're done packing up? Let's go!"  
  
I follow closely behind them as they force their way through the throngs of students roaming the halls and gathering into groups to make their way to the pitch. I am surprised by the number that is amassing; it is only a Gryffindor-Hufflepuff game after all.  
  
Outside, I'm struck by the intense afternoon sunlight. The day is perfect, cloudless, beaming, a tribute to the exhilarating match ahead of us. I can just tell by the smell in the air, the breeze pushing at my back and tugging at my hair, and the warmth of the sun on my face that this is going to be a match to remember. We make it up to the Gryffindor stands before they become too full and choose seats carefully away from some of the more animated fanatics who have charmed their hair and faces to periodically flash red and gold.  
  
Mel joins us not too long after, sliding in between Nick and me with big, solemn eyes and pouty lips. Her impossibly long legs fold gracefully under her, the hem of her skirt riding up a scant inch or two, a move that I have come to realize has been precisely calculated to the last flick of the hair and the soft, escaping sigh.  
  
Nicky is in nothing but trouble when it comes to her.  
  
"Mel," I greet stoically, ignoring the annoyed look Nick sends me. "How'd you do on the Transfiguration practical today? I thought I might have smelled smoke."  
  
Her eyes narrow at me; I can practically see the cogs working furiously behind her eyes. Once last year she had been trying to turn a small woven basket into bat. Somehow in the process she had started a fire, something I tried hard not to let her live down. She has been, after all, brilliant in every other endeavor since birth.  
  
When she responds, her voice mirrors mine; detached, unemotional. "Sometimes that happens to certain Gryffindors when trying to tackle something too difficult for them. The practical wasn't too taxing on you, was it?"  
  
"Your sympathy is duly noted," I say dryly, biting my lip in a desperate bid to stop myself from saying anything I may regret later.  
  
Nick is glaring at me openly now. "Girls, do I need to separate you two?"  
  
I manage to appear contrite, for about two seconds. "Oh, look, the game is starting," I note, hoping to divert his attention from me as I watch Professor Sienega take to the air from the pitch, circling once before signaling for the start of the game. Holly, in her excitement, leaps upwards, dragging me bodily up with her.  
  
Everything she does is fast, from thought to action in a nanosecond. Sometimes I can hardly find the energy to keep up with her, but I always find myself willing to try.  
  
Despite our nonexistent love for the Gryffindor team, I have to admit that they are probably the most entertaining to watch, sans the Slytherins. They are creative in their flying and have the nerve to back their recklessness up when plans and strategies change halfway through. Most other players would be screaming 'Abort, abort!'—at least to themselves—and then check to see what their teammates are doing around them. But the Gryffindors seem almost connected with each other, always knowing where the others are, and they all seem to change their game play simultaneously, looking like a well- rehearsed dance.  
  
But it probably is. The Quidditch teams have been fanatical these past few years, spending hours over the required practice time per week, the Gryffindors out there the most.  
  
And it shows.  
  
After the Gryffindor team is announced and introduced (as if we don't know who each and every one of them already is) I sit down with the rest of the house as Holly continues cheering, much to the chagrin of those around us, for the Gryffindors as well as Hufflepuffs. It isn't long before she stops shrieking, pulled down onto the edge of the bench by Nick's long-reaching arms but hovering an inch above the wood for seconds at a time. I can practically feel the energy coming off of her in waves.  
  
This is why I love going to matches with her. This intangible intensity that seeps into my pores has become addicting. I feel myself laughing; I am the happiest and most carefree I've been in a long time.  
  
And the game is excellent. Even the snotty, Miss-Know-it-all Mel can't ruin the throb of exhilaration that is pulsing through my veins, not even when she and Nicky forgo all pretenses and spend more time examining each other's mouths with their tongues rather than watch the violent acrobatic moves in front of them.  
  
Today the teams are waging an epic battle. Hufflepuff, while relatively inexperienced compared to the Gryffindor's completely senior team, excels at perseverance. Where they might lack in ability or strategy, they make up for in dedication to each other, to their goal of winning. Their captain, Patience Piercefield—for whom I have always felt a certain amount of compassion, considering her unfortunate name—knows of the teams shortcomings and instead of trying to catch up with the other houses in areas that they lack in, she instead focuses on reinforcing those few strengths into a completely defensive team.  
  
Today, their chasers are acting more as secondary keepers, spending most of the time in their own corner of the pitch than the Gryffindor's. Their beaters are talented; Gryffindor's chasers are having a hard time flying five meters before a bludger comes whirling at them, and their seeker is their one and only hope at winning.  
  
And everyone on the pitch knows this.  
  
The score is ten-zero Gryffindor—has been for nearly twenty five minutes—and the spectators on both sides are starting to realize that this will definitely be a close game. It's completely down to the seekers now.  
  
I have a sneaking suspicion, suddenly, that the Hufflepuffs are more conniving than anyone had previously anticipated. Our two best players, Black and Potter, have effectively been eliminated as a threat. Black, as Keeper, has yet to even see the quaffle on his side of the pitch, much less touch it. He is currently zipping restlessly to and fro in front of the goal posts, looking for the life of him as if he is going to abandon the poles completely to join the game. And Potter, despite his most valiant efforts, has broken through Hufflepuff's defensive web only once, scoring the only goal of the game thus far. His frustrated yells to his teammates can be heard even from where I am sitting, though all meaning has been lost to the wind.  
  
And Gryffindor's little Hani Ahmed, with her long, twisted, black hair and thick glasses is up against the Badger's Galvin Boyle, a boy who doubles both her size and flying ability, in a race to catch the snitch first. They had started by flying high laps over the pitch, circling each other cautiously, but now they resided down on the field, weaving in and out of the players restlessly, trying to spook the other into letting down his guard. As I peer out into the field, I notice that there are fast-moving clouds on the horizon. The sky seems to be growing darker as the chances for a Gryffindor win grow darker as well.  
  
"Holly, if you don't stop tugging on my arm this instant, I swear I will not go with you to any of the matches for the rest of the year," I threaten in a nasty tone, knowing full well that I will be sitting by her side come the next game.  
  
She calms down but only for a moment. "The snitch!" she shrieks, standing up and pointing up into the sky. Soon others are following her arm, craning their necks for a glimpse of the gold sphere.  
  
I peer upwards, seeing nothing for a short time, and then—yes!—there it is! I see it! But where is Hani? Where is Boyle? If we can see it, surely they can. And then I realize something and sit down, meekly pulling Holly down with me.  
  
"I'm not even doing anything this time," she begins to protest but I push my hand over her mouth and hiss at her.  
  
"It's not the snitch."  
  
She looks at me oddly then a patient look crosses her face, one that I could easily see her giving a three year old. "Yes, it is," I believe she says (her words are quite muffled behind my hand but the nod of her head indicates her meaning clearly).  
  
"No, it's an airplane."  
  
Holly rolls her eyes at me, clearly assessing my need for glasses, then pauses and wrenches her head upwards away from my grasp. "Fuck me," she swears and she hunches down in her seat, red-faced.  
  
Giggling as I am, I almost don't hear the snickering behind me. As I turn, I find myself face to face with Remus Lupin who is looking thoroughly amused. Holly also notices and slouches down even further in her seat.  
  
"Don't worry," he says warmly, his eyes focused solely on Holly's. "I don't think anyone else has realized yet."  
  
She nods, her cheeks flaring a bit brighter as Lupin cuts his eyes over to me, his expression changing so smoothly I can't help but think it was calculated. He's now looking at me in a slightly puzzled way, as if I'm a tricky arithmancy problem he's been asked to solve.  
  
"Why do you keep staring at me?" The words fly out before I have a chance to trap them. Blood pulses through to my cheeks.  
  
Out of the corner of my eye I see Nicky pull his head away from Mel's as he focuses in on my conversation; Holly sits up a bit straighter.  
  
Lupin notices this as well and pauses, examining Pettigrew next to him who is looking mutinous. Carefully, he leans forward, his lips hidden by my hair and he whispers. "Those with secrets tend to be drawn to each other." He stops speaking the same time my heart ceases to beat. "Not because we want to share," he continues, his voice dropping lower. "But because we need the company of the like-minded." His hand flutters across my back and rests significantly on my arm. "The fellow afflicted."  
  
He knows, is the only thing that seems to be running through my mind, coursing over and over again until I jerk back away from his hand startling everyone around me.  
  
"That's not the snitch!" an abrupt yell interrupts from down the row. Next to me Holly groans, practically sitting on the floor now. Flashing one more look behind me at Lupin and feeling achingly naked under that scrutinizing stare of his, I focus back on the players zooming around in front of me. I am so focused, in fact, that it takes me several moments to realize that my eyes are following Hani as she races Boyle for purchase on the real snitch.  
  
In the excitement following the two seekers speeding down the field, weaving through the other players at break-neck speed, the whole of Gryffindor has forgotten Holly's mistaken sighting of the snitch and are frozen collectively. Some are poised, hovering between actually sitting and standing, while others are hunched forward, mouths hanging open mid-cheer. Everyone is thoroughly fixated on the two figures; everyone except me. I can hear Pettigrew's labored breath behind me and feel Lupin's calculating stare still concentrated on my back despite the hushed anticipation surrounding him.  
  
I am unsettled, the feeling burying itself deep in my stomach until I'm not at all sure that I am completely well. Eyesight blurring, I grip Holly's arm. Something is wrong with me, I think to myself, but it seems foreign, detached, as if someone else is trying to convince me of the fact. But I am the only one who notices.  
  
And then the moment on the precipice of elation or agony is broken. Hani catches the snitch. The Gryffindor stands go wild, the cheering, clapping, chanting, and stomping throbbing through to my heart, pushing at its sluggish rhythm until I feel I'm ready to burst.  
  
And I can't stand the noise. I can't stand the reverberation of the stands, the sway of the crowd, the cold, uncomfortable feeling of someone watching me.  
  
He knows.  
  
I stand abruptly, belatedly letting go of Holly's arm, but she doesn't seem to realize this. And I'm running down the steep slope of stairs, eight steps then sharp-angle turn, eight steps then turn, over and over again until I'm down on the ground streaking my way towards the castle, following the trail hooded with trees and branches. Above me, the sun is blotted out by the darkening clouds.  
  
I have no destination in mind, no thought except to get away, be on my own. And with each step that I take, I can feel the world growing clearer, lines sharp and rigid, colours more vibrant.  
  
I make it to the broad castle doors as the first rain drop strikes. By the time I am four flights up, near the west corridor, the sky is coming down in a torrent of rain. Slowing myself, I peer out the window, the eerie silence in the castle behind me vaguely disturbing. Absently, I watch the students down below herding themselves under any shelter they can find to escape the downpour, to protect themselves from the weather.  
  
I feel the electricity flow through the air right before the lightning strikes.  
  
It spurs me back into movement.  
  
I know that there will be a huge celebration in the common room tonight; I have no desire to be there. My mask is beginning to crumble. I can feel as the cracks web an intricate design across my skin and I itch at my arms uncomfortably. Every woman has her emotional trigger. Mine is my collection of carefully concealed secrets. Secrets that eat away at me day after day. Secrets that I have nightmares about people discovering.  
  
He knows.  
  
Continuing up, I head north into the darker parts of the castle, parts that aren't often used. Some time in the past, I believe Hogwarts had taken on many more students than it currently does. The sheer number of unused classrooms and empty corridors seem to prove it. I have always wondered if the number of magical folks born each year is dwindling or if the establishment of other schools has offered more of a variety to students so they go elsewhere. Either way, the greater part of Hogwarts lays untouched, save for the dust of neglect and misuse.  
  
It is a common right-of-passage to be dared to wander the lonely corridors alone after midnight sometime before your fourth year. Despite its sordid past, no one truly believes that this castle is dangerous in any way, but it still can be terrifying to tiptoe down echoing hallways, catching shifting movement from the corner of your eye, trying desperately to convince yourself that it is just a painting curious to see the quiet, young girl in her pajamas wandering around barefoot.  
  
But it doesn't work.  
  
The longer you wander, the deeper the shadows seem to grow, and the louder your raspy breathing becomes. I feel that heaviness now, that isolation that seeps into the quick of your bones, and I'm suddenly twelve years old again, scared and alone.  
  
But I keep moving. I know vaguely where I am now, the halls finally taking on distinction from one another now that my unnecessary and thoroughly embarrassing hysteria is receding. The anxiety I had experienced—no, not anxiety, terror is more accurate—is slowly transforming itself into anger. Anger at Lupin for presuming he knows anything about me. Because how could he?  
  
He comes from the quintessential wizarding family. He is intelligent, near the top of his class, and is extremely well-liked, not only within his own house but throughout the school as well. What in his life could possibly measure up to what I have gone through, what I will go through?  
  
Moonlight streaks down the next hallway, drawing me towards a temptingly cracked open doorway. The pounding of the rain is louder here; I can smell it in the air. Without anywhere else to go, I start down the hall, only looking back once to find the shadows have shifted behind me. After a moment's hesitation I keep going. The heavy cedar door in front of me swings open without so much as a creak and I step out into the pouring rain, finding myself on a tower wall that I had previously thought only to be that. A wall. Never would I have suspected that on top was a pathway.  
  
At this height, the castle grounds appear empty and, squinting off into the distance, it seems as though the pitch is already vacant as well. I must have been wandering longer than I thought. I travel along the edge of the wall, ducking under each pillar for brief respites from the rain and find another looming cedar door leading into a small, squat tower.  
  
I am now facing away from the pitch, angled down towards the lake, and I turn around a few times to get my bearings. From what I can figure, I don't think I have ever been in this portion of the castle. I can't even begin to think where the passageways leading to it may be. So of course my curiosity gets the better of me and I reach for the latch on the door, while shoving my wet hair off of my forehead.  
  
Inside, it takes a little while for my eyes to adjust but once they do I gasp in realization.  
  
It's a church.  
  
It even smells like a church, the air heavy with moisture and incense from the thurabile off to the right. It has been a long time since I have been in a church, not since—  
  
Tears form in my eyes and I sniff, trying desperately not to think about my parents right now. Not today, of all days, when my emotions are running high already. But before I can stop them, they are already falling, streaming down my cheeks and leaving a telltale trail along the floor as I wander.  
  
Slowly, I wind myself through the pews, the tears slowing, fingering dust- covered bibles and feeling a sense of serenity wash over me. I feel as though this place is all mine, a place undisturbed by time or magic. As I ascend the wooden stairs leading to the altar, I hear echoing footsteps behind me.  
  
He is only a silhouette to me, broad shouldered against the dim light pouring in with the rain from outside, but I instantly know who it is. He looks like a fallen angel, haloed by moonlight.  
  
"Black," I say, trying to keep my voice steady as I once again fight off the urge to cry. This time, there are no tears. This time, there is only emptiness and I feel it set in the straight line of my mouth. I am not strong enough for this. Not right now.  
  
For his part, he seems startled to find me here. "Evans? Are you bloody lost?" He appears torn between indignation with me for contaminating his secret place and all-out anger from our last confrontation in the common room. And on top of it all, he's just sat through a Quidditch match where he was easily the most useless player on the field. He's got to be in an awful mood.  
  
"Not all who wander are lost," I whisper back. Raindrops spit against the window, alternating a light patter and harder bursts, as gusty winds occasionally blow against the intricate stained glass skylights above us. For a moment, it is all that can be heard.  
  
He seems to weigh my statement, eyeing me with blatant mistrust and when he starts walking towards me, I can't tell what conclusion he's come to. He comes to a stop not five feet away, at the base of the steps leading up to the altar. I feel a tad bit safer looking down on him, but when I finally meet his eyes, my stomach drops. He's practically seething in anger; his eyes are darkened to a void of black and droplets of water drip from his long, dark hair down his arms and over his clenched fists.  
  
"It's not a good idea to be wandering around alone." His voice is controlled but his hands are shaking. So are mine. "Especially for someone like you," he finishes threateningly.  
  
I concentrate on sounding rational, clear-headed. "And what is that supposed to mean?"  
  
Black smiles, a feral grin with a flash of teeth, and pushes a hand through his tangled, dripping hair. When he speaks, his voice is coolly confident, a rare occurrence with him. "Do you suppose that next year when your brother is gone, off playing Death Eater underling, my brother and his friends won't hesitate to hex you when your back is turned?"  
  
"I'm not an innocuous Hufflepuff, Black. Just because I chose to uphold family loyalty instead of disavowing my brother based on childish house rivalries doesn't mean that I'm not disillusioned to the workings of another's mind."  
  
I can see his eyes clearly now; they are glinting with malintent as he stalks deliberately up the steps and I find myself backing up as he crests the top.  
  
"Look," I continue placatingly. Maybe if I keep talking he won't notice my nervousness. "Just because you had a bloody hell of a time playing 'keep- the-goal-post-up' today, doesn't mean you can take it out on me."  
  
"Why do you bait me when you are obviously terrified of me?" He's looking down at my hands which I am dismayed to find are still shaking.  
  
I shake my head, a flinch. "You don't scare me." I put as much force behind the words as I can muster.  
  
He is smiling again, trying to crack me, trying to provoke a stronger reaction. I am determined not to let him.  
  
"When you speak to my brother, do your hands shake then as well? Does your stomach flutter nervously when he touches your arm? Does your heart pound recklessly when he leans in to talk to you?"  
  
As he creeps in closer, forcing me past the podium, I ask myself why I haven't left yet. I have no answer other than I can't seem to look away from this tragically beautiful boy in all his anger and viciousness. Never, in all of our years at school together, have we ever been alone and I'm not sure what to expect from him. He seems to operate on three different emotional settings: the devious prankster, the seducing playboy, or the cruel, easily angered aggressor. I'm not sure which of the three I'd rather be facing right now.  
  
I feel my breath catch in my throat and I have to forcefully mold it into words. "I have never and will never be interested in Regulus other than as a friend—"But I'm abruptly cut off as he lunges at me, hands gripping my arms above the elbows, breath warm against face, lips crushed against mine, grinding mercilessly, demanding something I'm not sure I can give.  
  
But I try anyway.  
  
My hands flatten against his chest ready to push him away but instead they linger, feeling the ragged breathing beneath the wet material and curling around the edges of the rough cloth. I come to the realization that sometimes giving in is more satisfying than putting up a fight.  
  
In the back of my mind, I know he is doing this to provoke my brother. It always comes back to my brother with him. But remarkably I don't mind.  
  
Maybe a little part of me is doing this to provoke my brother as well. Or maybe the cold, wet hands slipping inside my cloak, flattening against my bare lower back, causing delicious chills to shudder through my body, are what are controlling my actions.  
  
He is not a gentle person, although I never would have expected him to be, and I soon find him tugging on my hair roughly, exposing my neck to his brutal mouth, leaving a trail of searing bites down to my collar.  
  
This isn't what I want, isn't what I need, but I can't seem to focus on anything but the pattering of the rain around me and the feel of his hard chest pressed against mine. And then I understand that this is what I want and it is what I need. I push at his robes, yanking them back, off his shoulders, choking him along the way. But it doesn't matter. None of it does, I realize.  
  
For months, I wandered around too caught up in my delusions of life to come to actually live life in the now. But not anymore. It doesn't occur to me to question the motives of the boy currently ripping off my soaked shirt because he's not questioning mine. We are not looking for love, compassion or understanding. We are looking for release; we are looking for something that neither of us can achieve on our own.  
  
I hate him, he knows this, and that's what makes this work so perfectly. That our hate for each other is so passionate it encompasses all other emotions. I don't feel pity or warmth for him. I feel cold, hard, fervent hatred and an even stronger virulent desire.  
  
As he lifts me up and onto the dark, smooth, wooden altar, I can't help but feel excited at the sin I am committing. He slips off his pants, shoves my skirt up past my waist and climbs on top of me with only a seconds hesitation to look at the figure of Christ on the cross hanging above our heads. And then all I know is pain and pleasure and boys who look like angels but speak and taste and act as devils.  
  
He grunts in my ear, a harsh breathy sound that blows my damp hair to fan across the wood beneath me in clumps and I grip the altar stone above my head to create some stability in the chaos that is consuming us. As the rhythm becomes frenzied, I take all that I can from him. I take his breath away with the shifting of my hips. I take his sweat when I lick my way up his salty neck. I take everything he can give me by arching my back, forcing him to plunge deeper into this frantic madness we are lost in. I take and I take and I take until I have taken everything from him and I am so full that my world explodes into a blaze of light and warmth. He hisses through clenched teeth, jerking violently into me as we crash back down to earth.  
  
When it is completely over, when we both are sated and limp, I allow myself to look at his profile, the shallow cheeks, the squared-off chin, and I am satisfied to find that I hold no particular affection for him despite what we had just found in each other.  
  
Black rolls off of me, dipping his head to avoid the all-seeing gaze of Christ, and pulls his pants up as he winds his way around the banister to the thin, tiled isle that slashes the room in two. He is almost out the door by the time I crawl my way onto the floor and I watch as he stops abruptly, jolting around and meeting my eyes.  
  
At that moment, he is a complete enigma to me; I can't even begin to understand the depth in his eyes, nor do I want to. I am simply satisfied that he can meet my gaze as readily as I can meet his.  
  
Giving him ample opportunity to wander back to the common room, I take my time straightening my clothes and hair before making my own way towards the arched door left carelessly cracked open. As I pass through the very middle of the sanctuary, I see a brief shine of reflected light along the walkway, highlighted by the small hint of light bleeding in from the outside. Bending down, I gingerly pick up the delicate rosary, letting the beads slip through my fingers and I picture my mother holding her burgundy rosary, teaching me the Apostles Creed.  
  
I toy with the smooth beads as I cross the rest of the church and belatedly lay it down to rest at the feet of the stone Madonna and Child statue at the back. I finally step through the door and into the calming storm, the voice of my mother whispering the Memorare echoing in my mind.  
  
TBC...  
  
**_Footnotes:_**  
  
_Those with secrets tend to be drawn to each other_...: Don DeLillo, _Libra_  
Adapted quote; real version reads:  
_Men with secrets tend to be drawn to each other, not because they want to share what they know but because they need the company of the like-minded, the fellow afflicted._   
_Not all who wander are lost_: JRR Tolkien, _The Lord of the Rings_  
  
_**Responses to Reviewers:**_  
  
_FallenFlower_: I wouldn't go so far as to say it is a work of genius but I thank you all the same. I am actually the least talented writer in my family, if you'll believe it, so encouraging goes a long way with me :)  
  
_Alenchic_: I have recently been reviewing all my notes for my other story but unfortunately I don't think I'll go back to it until I am finished with this story.  
  
_Oorgit_: I certainly hope I am answering any questions you may have. If I haven't clarified something enough for you, tell me so that I know what to touch on more.  
  
And thank you to all the rest who reviewed! It means a great deal to me.


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